Hunger Games: Plutarch
by IzorIzent
Summary: The rise and rise of a Head Gamemaker.
1. Chapter 1

**Part I**

 **1**

Seneca Crane. What an ass. Plutarch had known him since school days. Seneca had always been full of himself. Wreathed in the Crane name, his position in the Capitol had been assured from the day of his birth. Plutarch didn't mind. Seneca was a very small ember in Plutarch's slow burn.

Plutarch Heavensbee, son of Marcus Heavensbee. The Heavensbees had once been ascendant in the capitol, major players with eyes on the Presidency. That was back in the days when Valentine Prius was President, but Prius was old and increasingly feeble. His nephew, Coriolanus Snow, had arrived at the presidential mansion to aid the failing President. Snow was in his prime: young, handsome, charming, urbane, ambitious, clever, and in the mansion. Almost immediately, tragedy was in the air.

Despite the best efforts of Panem's leading physicians, the President's health took a turn for the worse. Under intense medical supervision, he would show signs of recovery, but then, once the crises was past and he had returned to his mansion, his health would begin to slide again. It was clear he could not long continue.

There were rumors. Some people wondered how it was that the President's health seemed to go into steep decline whenever he was in the care of his nephew. No one dared to speak such things aloud, but there were those who felt that Snow should be kept at a distance. Marcus Heavensbee was one of them.

Marcus campaigned heavily among the Panem 23. These were the families that ruled the nation. When the time came, they were the select few, rich and powerful, who would confer the Presidency on the candidate of their choice. Lavish parties were held, lavish gifts bestowed. In quiet spaces, private views were shared, promises made, positions secured, money changed hands.

Snow, of course was doing all the same things, and factions were evolving.

The position of Marcus was strong. His views were considered sound, and his management of the family fortune exemplary, but then things started to go awry. A chief ally died suddenly from massive renal failure only a day or two after attending one of Snow's functions. Another died shortly after from an allergic reaction to a gift of exotic sea food supposedly sent by Marcus, though he denied any knowledge of it. He began to find it difficult to contact some of his supporters. They seemed always otherwise occupied. Then came the final blow.

While traveling to a banquet at the Presidential Mansion, his car was broadsided by an armored Peacekeeper vehicle and he died shortly thereafter. An investigation was held and the Peacekeeper driver was found negligent. He was removed from the Peacekeeper service but mysteriously managed to land on his feet in an advanced civilian position with the government procurement service, where such a thing could never happen again.

In a few months, Prius was gone as well, and Coriolanus Snow became the new President of Panem.

At age 21, Plutarch found himself the head of a much reduced family. Significant assets were lost through deals that Marcus had brokered, deals that seemed entirely out of character. More was lost to government appropriations for previously unannounced projects. At the funeral of Marcus, Snow himself assured Plutarch that the family's contribution to the welfare of Panem would not be forgotten. He granted Plutarch a position as undersecretary in a minor government department. Plutarch's hatred was difficult to conceal. He believed Snow to be complicit in the death of Marcus and blamed him entirely for the Heavensbee family setbacks. He found everything about Snow repellent, but forced a smile and shook the President's hand. His slow burn had begun.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Year's passed but Snow remained unassailable. Popular in the Capitol, the city bloomed under his administration. More and more of the nation's resources were diverted to that one, shining center. Bigger and more colorful buildings, an endless variety and abundance of food and drink, exotic fashions, spectacular entertainments... he denied them no extravagance. Excess ruled, and the citizens loved him for it. But Snow's rule was an iron hand in a velvet glove. To his supporters he was magnanimous, freely endowing sumptuous gifts and profitable appointments. His opponents fell by the wayside, discredited through scandal, disabled by sudden illness, dead from any number of causes natural or otherwise.

It was a spring day in the Capitol, and Plutarch was sitting at a patio table of a cafe across the square from the Presidential Mansion. The cafe was close to the administration center that housed his office, and was favored by bureaucrats as a lunch spot. Brilliant sun and mild temperatures were a sweet change from the cold and snow of the last few months. Even the President could not tame the weather. Plutarch had enjoyed this brief break from the drudgery of bureaucratic life, but a chill was setting in and he was thinking it was time to get back to his desk. He was making motions to settle his bill when an elfin man came up and sat, uninvited, at his table. In the Capitol, elfin meant elfin. The man was short in stature and lightly built. He had a long, curly grey beard and surgically pointed ears, wore a ridiculous green top hat, a jacket of dark green velour, short in front with long tails behind, yellow pants that buckled at the knee, yellow and red striped knee-length socks, and black shoes with silver buckles and curled toes. In the Capitol, this was not out of place. "Hello, Plutarch." he said.

"Do I know you?" asked Plutarch, irritated by the boorish intrusion.

"Ignatius Levine." answered the man extending his hand.

Plutarch gingerly accepted the gesture, still viewing the man with distaste, and suspicious that this must be some sales pitch.

"Watch this." said the man, pointing towards the gates of the Presidential Mansion.

Plutarch looked over to the normal bustle of a business day passing the mansion by, when a sudden explosion rocked the street.

The normal day was instantly converted to a scene of mayhem. Bloody bodies lay in the street. Others, clearly injured were standing, sitting, laying on the pavements. Cries, wails filled the air as panicked people tried to flee. A cloud of black smoke drifted through the air, and a section of the mansion's security fencing lay flat on the ground. Sirens were wailing, Peacekeepers converging from every direction.

Plutarch, instantly on his feet, stood riveted, his mouth hanging open, as the situation played out before him, then he snapped back to his present, and whirled to face the small man, but the man was gone.

Plutarch looked around him. All eyes were focused on the events across the square. He dropped some coins on the table and hustled away, back to his office.

Ignatius Levine. The name was vaguely familiar. He entered it into his computer and received a surprise. It was the name of the mayor of District 13 in the Dark Days, the days of rebellion when the districts, under the leadership of 13, had risen up and tried to overthrow the Capitol. The intrusion into his life of this new, and deadly, Ignatius Levine was obviously intended, had been carefully staged, but to what end?

The rest of the day was lost. Neither Plutarch nor any of his co-workers had any interest in their duties; the only topic of conversation was the bomb. Plutarch carefully avoided mention of the elfin man.

A week later, Plutarch was sitting in his favorite restaurant, enjoying dinner after a long day's work. He dined alone. Plutarch had never married. His family was still known in the city, but since his father had challenged Snow for the Presidency, a cloud had hung over the Heavensbees. It didn't bother Plutarch; when Snow went, so would the cloud, but he was no closer to bringing that about than he had been for so many long years. Snow... now there was a problem worthy of his attention.

Plutarch had just settled comfortably, enjoying a pre-meal aperitif, when the elfin man appeared again. He was conservatively dressed this time, in purples and golds, blues, yellows and greens, and once again he sat down uninvited at Plutarch's table.

Plutarch looked at him with wary interest, cordial glass forgotten in his hand. "Is your name really Ignatius Levine?"

"Why aren't you calling for Peacekeepers?" came the reply.

"What did you hope to achieve?"

"An introduction."

"Your disregard for human life is hardly a recommendation."

"Have you never watched the Hunger Games?"

"Well," said Plutarch, setting down his glass, "you have my attention."

"Why didn't you give my name to the Peacekeepers a week ago?"

"How do you know I didn't."

"We know." came the reply.

"I looked it up," said Plutarch, "and all I saw was a whole lot of needless complications. If I gave that name to the Peacekeepers, they'd start looking at me. I thought it best just to let it go."

"How do you feel about President Snow?"

"President Snow is a fine administrator." replied Plutarch. "I don't see why I should discuss such things with you."

"He killed your father."

Plutarch did not reply, though his face took on a grim cast.

"And he's killing Panem... strangling it to death through greed and indifference."

"Those are treasonous words."

"And still you don't call for Peacekeepers."

Plutarch looked up as a waiter approached. He gave his dinner order but made no motion to even acknowledge the other man at the table. The waiter looked at the other man who simply said, "I'll be leaving shortly."

As the waiter left, the man turned his attention back to Plutarch. "We don't like Snow, and we want him eliminated. We don't like the Capitol and want it brought down to size. We do want your help to do that." He rose to leave.

Still sitting, looking at Levine standing before him, Plutarch asked, "What is your name?"

"Bill." came the reply.

"That's not a Capitol name."

"No, it isn't."

He turned and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

From his civil service position, Plutarch had watched as former schoolmates and acquaintances soared beyond him in the government hierarchy, not least among them Seneca Crane. The Cranes had been in Snow's corner from the outset and had profited hugely when he became President. Seneca found himself principal secretary of a mid-level department, and Plutarch began to cultivate his friendship.

Plutarch knew from schooldays that Seneca lived in desperate need of approval. In that respect, the adult did not differ from the boy. Seneca was by no means stupid, but he tended towards the timid. As a result, he had stagnated in his appointed position. He was not happy, and Plutarch saw this as a means to his own advancement.

Plutarch really had no idea what he hoped to achieve in a confrontation with Snow, but he knew he would never find out stranded in his current position. If he was ever to achieve anything, he must first move closer to the president.

Through charm and flattery, he inveigled himself into Seneca's notice, playing up a childhood friendship that had never really existed. Over time, their interactions became more common, and they were frequently seen in each other's company. Their acquaintance gained social acceptability. Plutarch knew his own family background was a barrier to advancement, but Seneca's was not. Seneca, for all that he did not like it, was in a position of responsibility, and Plutarch's aim was to become his invaluable aide. He played on Seneca's insecurities, bemoaning Seneca's lack of advancement despite his obvious administrative talent. What Seneca lacked, according to Plutarch, was the proper venue in which to display his abilities. The Hunger Games provided the opportunity.

Nor did 'Bill' go away. (Plutarch never did believe that to be his name.) In quiet times and places far from public notice, he would unexpectedly appear. Always his conversation would come around to politics, and always his comments bordered on sedition. Plutarch viewed Bill with deep suspicion. Snow had spies everywhere and it was possible that Bill's purpose was to entrap Plutarch and lead to his undoing.

Slowly, over time, his suspicions were allayed. Bill knew things, atrocious things that nonetheless rang true, and he knew all the wrong people, people who had fallen off the social register, people who had no love of Snow. Plutarch investigated as best he could without drawing attention. He could find nothing to suggest that those who Bill knew suffered as a result.

A weekend came that saw Plutarch at the Cardew family estate. He was there at the invitation of Bill, but the Heanensbees and the Cardews had known each other for long years. Little remained of that family. They had backed Marcus in his bid for the Presidency and had been vocal in their distrust of Snow. For that, they had paid heavily. Influential members of the family had long since disappeared, several under mysterious circumstances. Time had decimated those who remained and the family was on its last legs. The estate was now home to Fulvia Cardew, the last in the direct line. She lived quietly alone on what remained of the family fortune. Her mansion sat in scrupulously manicured grounds just outside the southern reach of the Capitol. The house was large, but sections of it had long been closed. Fulvia focused her attention on external appearances. The gardens were spectacular and velvety green lawns ran from the house down to the edge of a precipice.

Fulvia was about 10 years younger than Plutarch and an attractive woman. She did not work, as was befitting a woman of her social status, but took an interest in the affairs of the city and secretly longed for a more active involvement. She and Plutarch hit it off, enjoying each other's company. They had in common their social background, a shared alienation, and an abiding hatred of Snow.

It was during this weekend that Bill revealed himself as an agent of District 13 and Plutarch, though dubious of what help he could provide, agreed to join their cause.

"Both of you," said Bill as they strolled through the grounds of the estate, "are in a position to supply us with information on the temper of the Capitol. You both have sufficient social standing to gauge the mood of the top echelons."

"Neither of us is in Snow's good lights." pointed out Fulvia.

"Neither of you is particularly on his radar at all, but that can change." said Bill.

He looked at Plutarch, "Your friendship with Seneca Crane is an example. His family is very powerful and entirely in Snow's 'good lights'. A relationship like that might yield some real gems of insight into Snow's plans."

"And you," he said, looking at Fulvia, "could get out more."

All three chuckled.

"But seriously," continued Bill, "I don't see why you couldn't become more socially active. You're not without friends, and you're almost a generation removed from those who Snow targeted. You could be 'rehabilitated'."

Plutarch returned to his job still uncertain of what was expected. He did have a social circle, and he was aware of some who secretly opposed Snow's views, but what could he do with that?


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

The 71st Hunger Games were uninspired. Plutarch and Seneca sat together and watched the action play out. Even the color commentators were having difficulty inspiring interest, and the Head Gamemaker was not looking good on camera.

"See that?" said Plutarch as the Gamemaker fought to excuse the dull and mechanical inevitability of the onscreen killings, "This guy gets all this publicity, he's in such a high profile position, and he can't deliver."

"He's been doing it for ages. He's out of ideas. All those guys are really old." said Seneca.

"You should apply for the position." said Plutarch.

"Yeah?" asked Seneca, "And what could I do?"

"I don't know. Juice it up. Get some action going."

Plutarch looked at Seneca, "You know what? You should really do it. You should apply. You've got the connections, and you've proven your ability as an administrator. We can get a bunch of guys together and brainstorm some ideas to get the Games going again. Revitalize them. Rejuvenate them. It's mostly stock stuff anyhow, which is part of the problem. The Reaping, the parade, the interviews... they're all fixtures. The arenas are laid out four or five years in advance. Head Gamemaker is largely a caretaker position – the on air face of the Games – and this guy is past it. A Head Gamemaker who actually had some input, who worked to make the games better, who showed some spirit: that would be a real innovation. Let's do it!"

Seneca looked at Plutarch quizzically, "Are you serious?"

"Why not?" asked Plutarch. "Look at you. Look at that job. I can see it now: 'Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker'! You'd be the darling of the media. You'd shine!"

It took a year. Plutarch gathered friends together and took on Fulvia Cardew as secretary. They hammered out a bunch of ideas and handed them off to Seneca. Seneca's family was pleased by this sudden burst of ambition, and applied themselves to making it happen. Proposals were made, negotiations took place, 'donations' changed hands and Seneca Crane was in place as Head Gamemaker in time for the 73rd Hunger Games.

The Games were the greatest success in years. 'Revitalized' and 'rejuvenated' were key words in all the coverage. A smiling Seneca Crane received accolades from the press and public. President Snow offered his warmest congratulations in person. And in the shadows, at the back of all the photos, were the smiling faces of the newly minted Gamemaker, Plutarch Heavensbee, and his indispensable assistant, Fulvia Cardew.

Seneca was on top of the world, and the run-up to the 74th Games was a stroll down the red carpet. Arena construction was on time and under budget, and Plutarch had come up with a real zinger for an ending – wolf-like mutations with physical characteristics of the fallen tributes. The geneticists were on board, their preliminary work complete. All they needed was DNA from the tributes to complete the job. The public would love it.

There was a minor hitch when one of the long standing stylists died suddenly of a stroke, but this turned into another golden opportunity. A competition was staged for a new stylist. Capitol citizens followed it avidly and, in the end, voted their choice to be a young and untried designer named Cinna D'Aqille. Seneca, and certain others of the Gamemakers, weren't entirely happy with the selection. Cinna's appearance was toned-down, drab, by Capitol standards. Most stylists pushed the outer fringes of fashion. There was some concern that his appearance showed a slight disrespect for Capitol values, but his design portfolio had been undeniably amazing. Cinna, the very soul of deference, accepted graciously and begged for assignment to District 12, that losing albatross of a district that every other stylist dreaded. Another score for Seneca: he was able to slot Cinna into the schedule with hardly a ruffle to the feathers of the other stylists.

"I confess," said Seneca to Plutarch, "that I dreaded his appointment. Those stylists are such a bunch of preening divas that I was imagining a rebellion in the ranks."

Plutarch laughed and said encouragingly, "Just as well that didn't happen, but I'm certain you would have handled it brilliantly."

The traditional Reaping Day Banquet in the Capitol saw all the Gamemakers, stylists and prep teams gathered together for their annual display of dedication and camaraderie. Behind the scenes, it was a bloodbath: a brutal bout of trash talk and personal denigration. Under the guise of friendship, they pumped each other for tidbits on costume design and strategy. This Games' chosen tributes showed neither more nor less promise than those of previous Games. The highlight was a twelve year old from District 11. The District 11 stylist immediately became the focus (and target) of envy for everyone in the room. Such young tributes always tugged at the heartstrings of the public. A stylist could rise high through the proper management of such a gem. There had almost been two twelve year olds selected, but a volunteer from District 12 had spoiled that bit of fun. Still... a volunteer from District 12 was unprecedented in itself (never mind the selfless sister of a reaped tribute), and that made the new man, Cinna, a target as well. But in the end, each stylist left the banquet secure in the certain knowledge of his or her own superiority.

Bill had expressed his pleasure at the advancement of Plutarch and Fulvia. The circle Plutarch had created under the guise of brainstorming sessions was an instant network of well-placed Capitol citizens covertly opposed to Snow. Fulvia had broadened her circle as well, and her estate had become a social center of sumptuous parties and banquets (largely funded by District 13). It was an ideal location for unobtrusive meetings and the exchange of information among the many and varied acquaintances of Bill, Fluvia, and Plutarch, but the circle spread wider. Many who attended Fulvia's parties were staunch supporters of Snow, and many were not even aware that 13 existed. The mansion was opened up and refurbished, its guestrooms and out buildings bugged with microphones and cameras. Indiscreet conversations and liaisons were duly recorded for analysis by 13's intelligence community, and for future use as blackmail.

It was the Tribute Parade for the 74th Games where the first indication occurred that these Games might exceed expectations. The arrival of the tributes before the Presidential mansion was preceded by an unusually raucous wave of popular acclaim. From their position in the square, Plutarch and Seneca saw them first on the giant monitors. The crowd was enraptured.

"Whoa, Cinna!" breathed Seneca.

"He's certainly made his name." agreed Plutarch.

It was the tributes from District 12, encased in flickering flame and glowing like smouldering embers of coal. Plutarch glanced at his program: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Melark.

"Look how they're holding hands." said Seneca.

"Like a team. Another first." Plutarch's mind was swirling. _Listen to that crowd_ , he thought, _There's something new here, and we'd better not drop the ball._

That was it. From that first public appearance, Katniss and Peeta were a sensation. They were instantly the soul of these Games.

Later, as the Gamemakers sat in conference reviewing the day's broadcast, the principal question seemed clear: how would they handle this?

"It might come to nought." someone pointed out. "One or both could die at the Cornucopia."

"I'll bet that little girl from 11 doesn't die there." added another. "She'll head straight for the woods."

"I wonder if that holding hands thing was actually part of a strategy. It might have been just a reflex action. They might not have noticed it themselves."

"Everyone one else noticed it." said Seneca, "It's already a big part of the buzz. But it's a dead end, isn't it. There can only be one victor."

Plutarch sat silently, and wondered.

As the next week unfolded, the rumors surrounding Katniss and Peeta grew. It leaked out that they were indeed acting as a team, a couple. There was talk of romance... tragic lovers. The testing scores added fuel to the fire: Peeta with a very respectable 7, and Katniss with her unprecedented 11. The night of the interviews sealed the public perception. Katniss dazzled in the gown that Cinna created, and then Peeta, with his declaration of love, brought the crowd to its knees.

"As of now," said Seneca afterwards, "our biggest problem will be if they die early. How will we deal with the let-down?"

"Hopefully we'll still have the girl from 11 to fall back on. And the boy from 11 has a lot going for him as well." replied Plutarch.

As it transpired, both tributes from District 12, and both from District 11 survived the opening day. It was true that Katniss and Peeta were separated, but Katniss was proving remarkably resourceful and Peeta, now a part of the largest and strongest hunting pack, was clearly during his best to mislead them and to keep her alive.

But these were the Hunger Games, and dreams of romance weren't enough to sustain the public interest. People expected action and, when events grew dull, the Gamemakers stepped in. Katniss barely escaped their hazards, and things looked tense when she ended up cornered. And who was it who came to her aid? The child from District 11!

Katniss' escape was dramatic and action packed. Two tributes died, but Katniss got away. She got away, but then she went back into danger, back to retrieve weapons – a bow and a quiver of arrows. It almost cost her her life, but then Peeta appeared, and took what would surely prove a mortal wound to allow her time to flee.

The Games ratings soared, and Seneca was ecstatic. "This couldn't be working out better if we'd scripted it!" he exclaimed.

The adventure sustained the Games for days. Katniss formed an unexpected alliance with the girl from 11 (another crowd pleaser), and then demonstrated an astonishing proficiency with the bow by destroying the hunting pack's hoarded supplies.

Then, just as suddenly as they had soared to giddy heights of popularity, the Games slammed back down to earth. The child from District 11 was killed, and action in the arena ground to a halt. The drive went out of Katniss. She seemed despondent and uninterested. Peeta had disappeared from view and was presumed to be slowly dying. Few tributes remained for the main pack to hunt, but they showed no signs as yet of turning on each other.

"What do we do now?" asked Seneca. "We have to get the tributes back into play."

"Introduce the mutations?"

"But that's our grand finale. Too soon for that."

"Start another fire?"

"Repetitious and smacking of desperation. The crowd won't like it."

Silence permeated the control room, the Gamemakers lost in a funk. A long day dragged by, a long day of inaction and idleness. The ratings for the Games were dropping precipitously, and the temper of the Capitol was turning sour. All the former promise of the Games was going down the drain... until a sudden idea hit Plutarch.

"Change the rules." he said.

"What?" asked Seneca giving him an incredulous stare.

"Change the rules. It could work. Make it so that there can be two victors if they're both from the same district."

"First of all," said Seneca dismissively, "we can't just arbitrarily change the rules, and secondly: what good would it do?"

"Why can't you change the rules?" Plutarch fired back. "You're the Head Gamemaker... so make the Games. Here's the good it does: both tributes remain from District 2 and from District 12. District 2 is noted for the ferocity and deadliness of its tributes. They'd be a killing machine if they felt secure working in tandem. And isn't District 12 the surprise of these Games? Give our lovers a chance to survive together."

"There's not that many left for a killing machine to kill," said Seneca, "and it seems likely that Peeta will die from his wound." He was obviously interested, but remained far from convinced.

"That's the beauty of it." said Plutarch. "Katniss will have no choice but to seek him out, and when she finds the condition he's in, she'll have to try to save him. The fear! The desperation! The poignancy! What a story! It revives everything. They'll be talking about these games a hundred years from now."

"What if she can't save him?"

"Oh, such grief! But it will carry us to the end."

"I still don't think I have the authority." said Seneca.

"This will be such a popular move, the people will make it so clear that this is a popular move that no one will speak against it. You'll be congratulated on your innovation, lionized for your audacity. What a master stroke!

"Look," said Plutarch, directly confronting Seneca, "the Games are stagnating, dying as we speak. Bold steps are necessary. Promising this kind of action is what got you your position."

Seneca slowly nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "yes. I'll do it."

A few calls later, and the momentous announcement was playing in the arena and throughout Panem. Almost instantly it had the desired effect. The Games rebounded in the ratings, the audience riveted to their view screens as Katniss set off in search of Peeta.

Shortly afterwards, Seneca was summoned to the Presidential Mansion. He went with the conviction that Snow could only be pleased that his Head Gamemaker was capable of such innovative action. It was a shaken Seneca who returned to the Control Center hours later.

"President Snow was furious. He asked me who I thought I was to change the rules. Well... he didn't ask so much as bellow. He lectured me on the Games: all about how they were a political thing first and foremost with the Capitol absolutely in control, and the districts subject to our whim. He accused me of caving to public opinion and showing sentimental weakness – showing weakness to the districts. I was terrified. But then a thought occurred to me and I don't know how I did it, how I managed to say anything at all, but I actually told him the situation was well in hand. I gave him the figures on the ratings to show what a difference the announcement had made, and then I pointed out that it was still unlikely that two from a single district would survive, but if that's what it came down to, all we had to do was repeal the change at the end... announce that it had been overruled as invalid.

"It didn't make him happy. He glared at me like his eyes would burn a hole clear through my head, and then he hissed that I'd better be able to make this good, and he stormed away."

A beaming Plutarch clapped Seneca on the shoulder and shook his hand. "Fantastic." he said, "This is exactly why you are so perfect as Head Gamemaker." Privately, he thought, _You'd better hope it doesn't come down to Katniss and Peeta._

In the end, the only district pair left was the pair from District 12. It had taken a Gamemaker intervention to keep Peeta alive, a contentious decision but ultimately deemed necessary. The same intervention had resulted in the death of the girl from District 2. Days later, when Katniss and Peeta decided to await the end at the Cornucopia, it was obvious that the Games had only hours left to run.

A massive crowd assembled in the square before the President's Mansion. They overflowed into the surrounding streets and an electric sense of involvement and anticipation ran through them. Peacekeepers assigned to crowd control had their hands full keeping a rein on the emotions. It was an unprecedented response to the outcome of a Games.

Seneca and Plutarch stood rapt before the Control Center monitors, half of which were trained on the arena, and the other half on the city square.

The crowd went wild when the only other tribute remaining, the boy from District 2, burst onto the scene, and then gasped in astonishment at the appearance of the final pack of mutations. All three tributes raced to climb the Cornucopia. Just as it appeared they might escape the wolf-like pack, a mutation sank its fangs into Peeta's leg and savaged it. And there they were: two tributes from District 12, and one from District 2, trapped together on the island of the Cornucopia, encircled by ravening beasts. But there was to be no truce.

The games required an ending, and it was the District 2 tribute who fell. Fell, but did not die. The mutations attacked, but he wore Gamemaker-provided armor, and he was a fighter. Heroic as he was, he was overwhelmed in the end, but the mutations were unable to complete the kill. Still atop the Cornucopia, Peeta was bleeding to death, and a freezing cold night had descended.

In the Capitol square, the mob was entranced. The hours dragged on and on deep into the night, but no one left. In fact, the crowd continued to grow as more and more people arrived to view the final act in these extraordinary Games. It came at last, and an odd sigh passed through when Katniss put a final end to the boy from District 2.

But now murmurs started to sweep the crowd. Spontaneous cheering erupted as the mutations were withdrawn from the scene and the final body extracted. Peeta and Katniss, that improbable team, the ill-fated lovers, were both still standing. The crowd's enthusiasm knew no bounds. Cheers broke out, people were dancing in the streets as the two victors made their way down from the Cornucopia and onto the surrounding field. Peeta was nearly dead from blood loss, but the two had finally triumphed.

"No. No. No." said Seneca. This can't happen." He was pale as a sheet.

"Remember what you told Snow." said Plutarch.

Seneca nodded, and moments later, the announcement of the revocation of the rule change was playing in the arena and across the land.

The crowd in the square became still and silent. A tragedy of immense proportions was playing out before their eyes. But didn't they know it had to happen? Hadn't it been written in the stars? And who would survive: only the one to eternally mourn the other.

The final confrontation between Katniss and Peeta touched every heart. And then Katniss made her move. In deliberate defiance of the Capitol she announced that if they could not both survive, then the Capitol would have neither. They would both die and the Games would have no victor.

A howl ripped through the mob in the square. To lose one was a tragedy, to lose both... a crime. Cries of protest filled the air. People were pushing and jostling. Fights broke out. The Peacekeepers desperately called for reinforcements as the situation deteriorated. Already, windows were being broken, fires set, stores looted as the mob took out its frustration on whatever, or whoever, was close to hand. A massive riot was was gaining momentum and the entire center of the Capitol was at risk.

"What are we going to do?" breathed Seneca, his eyes wide as saucers and his body seized by tremors. "They'll tear down the city!"

He turned his terrified gaze to Plutarch, who only looked back and shrugged.

Seneca took the only step he could think of. The announcement that the rule change would be honored and that these Games would have two victors was enough to quell the riot and turn anger to joy. Seneca had saved the city. He collapsed into the nearest chair, buried his face in his hands, and long shuddering sobs consumed him.

Two days later a celebratory party was held at Cardew House. It was the most magnificent affair yet held there, and everyone who was anyone was in attendance. The Games had been a success on an enormous scale and unbridled approval rained down on Plutarch and Fulvia. Some expressed disappointment that Seneca Crane was not present, but the sumptuousness of the affair soon drove all cares away. Bill, once again in his Ignatius Levine persona, was in deep conversation with Fulvia and Plutarch when a server rushed up, bobbing up and down, and announced in incredulous tones that the President himself had just arrived. Plutarch and Fulvia rushed to greet him.

President Snow had barely stepped through the doors when Plutarch and Fulvia were there. The President smiled benevolently at the two of them.

"Plutarch Heavensbee and Fulvia Cardew." he said, his voice fairly dripping approval. "The both of you are to be commended. Each of you is a credit to your respective families. It is such a pleasure to see the two of you back in your rightful place in the social order."

The two thanked him profusely and invited him into the house.

"No. No." said president. "Unfortunately, I cannot stay, but I did want to personally deliver a bit of news. Unfortunately, Seneca Crane will be unable to continue as Head Gamemaker. Having heard of your enormous contributions to the success of these Games, I have decided to appoint you, Plutarch, in his stead."

Plutarch looked genuinely startled and bowed deeply.

"The next Games will be very special..." continued the President, "the third Quarter Quell. I expect to take a particular interest in them, and look forward to working closely with both of you."

The room, which had fallen silent at the President's appearance, was now buzzing with low-level conversation.

The President glanced around, smiling graciously at some of the more familiar faces.

"Well," he said, "duty calls. The formal announcement will be made tomorrow. Enjoy your party."

With that he turned and walked back to his waiting limousine.

As the car disappeared down the long lane, Bill came up behind the pair.

"What was that all about?" he asked.

Plutarch replied. "Snow has just handed us enough rope to hang ourselves."


	5. Chapter 5

**Part II**

 **5**

The following few days were a whirlwind of pomp and ceremony as Plutarch was confirmed in his new position. He gave speeches, was endlessly interviewed, attended galas, received honors, was feted and celebrated. He was on camera so constantly that a special team was created to chronicle his movements. The crew was never far away when Plutarch appeared in public, and he became familiar with his video producer, Cressida Kusnetsov. They watched him, and he watched them, eager to pick up any insights or jargon that might make him sound more knowledgeable than he felt.

The city, still giddy over the triumph of the star-crossed lovers from District 12, hardly noticed the disappearance of Seneca Crane. It was rumored, in select circles of high standing, that he had been executed, and that Snow was furious with the way the Games had ended.

Katniss' district token, her golden Mockingjay pin, was the latest craze. If there was surface enough to hold its image, there it would be found. The exception was the Presidential Mansion. People soon learned not to wear the Mockingjay in the presence of the President. His displeasure was clear and undeniable, but even Snow could not fight the present tide of euphoria surrounding Katniss and Peeta. He took comfort in the certain knowledge that it would fade with time, and action could be taken when more sober judgment prevailed.

Soon enough, daily life reverted to normal in the Capitol. The Hunger Games never completely went away, but they faded to the background in the face of day-to-day concerns.

Plutarch had his hands full. He had to familiarize himself with his new job, assess the progress of the next arena, assure that the Gamemaker team was in place and on target. The job had a significant promotional and social aspect. A constant stream of interviews, business lunches, evening parties, kept interrupting his progress. Cressida and her team were kept hopping. And all the time, he could feel Snow's eyes burning into the back of his neck.

 _This is where you need to be,_ he kept telling himself, _if you ever hope for a shot at Snow._

His network of dissidents continued in their work, funneling such information as they could to District 13, but Plutarch knew it was low grade material and wondered why Bill even bothered.

Bill was pleased. "Head Gamemaker!" he said, "This is going to make a difference." Plutarch didn't see how.

After a particularly arduous session of public appearances, Cressida approached him. She was hesitant and deferential.

"Mr. Heavensbee," she started, "I hope you won't think this too forward, but there is a production issue that needs to be addressed."

"Feel free call me Plutarch, and take whatever this issue is to your supervisors. It's not my job."

"I have," said Cressida, "but they say there's no budget. The thing is that for the extensive coverage your activities continue to require, we really need a second cameraman. Castor does the best he can, but it always seems that the shot that's needed is the one we don't have. It's very limiting, working with just the one cameraman. A word from you might prove helpful."

"Your superiors would resent my interference and, one way or another, they'd take it out on you."

She looked very unhappy. "It would be helpful if you could make it sound like your own idea. And it is to the benefit of your coverage."

Plutarch had already dismissed the notion and was turning his attention elsewhere, waiting for Cressida to realize the futility, and for the conversation to fizzle out.

"There is another issue."

"And what's that?"

"A small crew like this is a delicate thing. To make it work, you need to have the right people... compatible people."

"Are we still talking about the cameraman? You have a someone specific in mind?" asked Plutarch, distractedly.

"Well, yes. You see, Castor has a brother, a twin actually, who was fully trained as a video technician until..." She stopped.

"Until what?"

"He took part in a demonstration, a bit of civil disobedience. All this was years and years ago."

"Young people sometimes commit rash acts. I'm sure if this young man has presented himself as Castor does, then your superior's objections are entirely budgetary."

"The government accused him of leading it, actually, and condemned him to be an Avox."

Plutarch gave a start. "He's an Avox? Castor's brother is an Avox? You want an Avox, a convicted traitor, a criminal serving a life sentence, for a cameraman?"

"Yes."

She now had his full attention.

"Cressida, that is possibly the dumbest idea anyone has ever presented to me. It's wrong on just so many levels. The very concept is... disgusting. Avoxes are beyond redemption. And you expect me to present this as my own idea?"

"Just the second cameraman part. I'll do the rest."

"How? What do you think the response will be when you make this suggestion? You won't get what you want, and you'll be doing yourself very serious damage. You'll also be doing Castor very serious damage. I can't imagine that your supervisors are aware that he has a brother who's an Avox. Do you realize that I am ethically required to report this conversation, and if I do, at the very least you will both lose your jobs?"

"Yes." she said, even more unhappy, but with a touch of defiance in her voice.

"Then what's the point? I think it's best if we just forget the conversation entirely, don't you? Agree that it never took place? I think it's best that you just forget the whole idea. It's suicidal. This is very dangerous thinking. My sympathies to Castor, but there's absolutely nothing to be done."

She nodded, reluctantly.

"It's good," he said, in a conciliatory tone, "that you are willing to bring your concerns to me, but this really very peculiar notion... it pushes the limit of what I can tolerate hearing. But if you have other such ideas in the future, maybe you should run them by me first. At least I can advise you if it's the sort of thing that might get you hung."

Within a week, Cressida had her second cameraman, but he was a nephew of her department head.


	6. Chapter 6

**6**

Through the endless rounds of social engagements, Plutarch began to hear rumors of dissatisfaction in the districts... increases in pilfering, sub-standard production, work stoppages, sabotage, riots. There were even occasional shortages in the Capitol, where this bauble or that delicacy simply could not be had. The peacekeepers were very busy indeed. Arrests, interrogations, and executions were on the rise.

Bill nodded sagely when informed of these rumors. "It's true." he said, "All of it and more."

He looked up sharply when Plutarch asked him if he had heard of an Avox named Pollux Lindgren.

"Why do you ask?"

"He's the brother of one of the cameramen on my video team. Cressida mentioned him."

"Pollux was an activist some years ago. He paid the price. You don't remember those riots?"

"Riots? Now that you mention riots, I have a vague recollection," said Plutarch, "but not of the individuals involved."

Snow, true to his word, took a special interest in the Games. Hardly a week went by when Plutarch did not find himself at the Presidential Mansion being lectured on their political consequences. He and Snow would sit together at lunch discussing their progress. Their meetings were very civil, but nothing could take the chill from the air.

"I'm convinced that our days are numbered." Plutarch told Bill. "It doesn't matter how successful the next Games are, at the end, both Fulvia and I will be executed. Some excuse will be found. Some excuse related to treason. Snow knows what he did to our families and why. You know that old saying: keep your friends close and your enemies closer? We are the enemies he keeps closer than his friends. He still sees us as threats."

"And hopefully you are." replied Bill. "But don't imagine you'll be abandoned by us." Then, changing the subject, he asked, "What do you hear these days about the Mockingjay, about Katniss and Peeta?"

Plutarch responded, "Interest is alive and well. People are really looking forward to the Victory Tour. It's the romance thing: each willing to sacrifice their life for the other. There are great expectations now that the danger has passed... and a bit of concern on my part that those two won't live up to it. If the public is disappointed, Snow will hold it as a failure on my part. Snow hates the Mockingjay with a passion. Clearly he sees Katniss' actions as a deliberate challenge to Capitol authority, and you can be sure he's not going to let that ride."

"Interest is much more than alive and well in the districts," said Bill. "and many there saw her acts as clear confrontation. Discontent has always bubbled under the surface, but now she's given it a voice, a face, and a symbol. They're desperate in the districts and she has become the focus of their hopes."

"Just how far do you think they can take it?" asked Plutarch. "I mean: so what? So far as I can tell, the Peacekeepers have firm control, and Snow is unsparing when it comes to keeping them happy."

"We feel a popular uprising is achievable, and that's what we're working towards."

Plutarch scoffed, "Lead by Katniss Everdeen? I've met her. She certainly didn't seem the type."

"We're riding a popular wave here, with Katniss at its crest. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts."

"And what does Katniss have to say about it."

"She hasn't been asked. We are in touch with Haymitch Abernathy and he tells us that, so far as she is concerned, the Games are a closed book."

"Well," said Plutarch, "so much for your revolution. You know the upcoming Games are a Quarter Quell. That means some special twist. The arena is a set fixture that has already been determined; the clock structure and all. The twist will come in the selection of the tributes, as it has with the previous Quells. You can bet that Snow is kept entirely informed of what's going on in the districts. If he even suspects that Katniss is connected, however remotely, to all of all this unrest, you can bet he will come down on her like a hammer... and the Games provide the easiest way to do that."

"She's a victor. She's ineligible."

"That sister of hers isn't. What would happen to Katniss if her sister's name was drawn again? As you say: Katniss is ineligible. No one volunteers twice."

Snow, however, had ideas of his own. Peeta had proposed to Katniss on the Victory Tour, and she had accepted. Snow had co-opted the wedding for the Capitol. Then, at a planning meeting for the forthcoming celebration, he made the astonishing announcement that former tributes would be reaped for the upcoming Quell. The announcement would follow the presentation of Katniss' wedding gowns.

"I couldn't help myself." Plutarch said to Bill later on. "I just blurted out 'You can't!' I thought that was the end right there. I thought I'd be shot on the spot, the look I got. But Snow just said 'If anyone's going to tamper with the rules, it will be me; and I will do it to assert Capitol domination.' No mention of Katniss, but he gets all the district reports. You have to figure this is how he's decided to end the whole Mockingjay thing."

It was a short week later when Bill summoned him to a meeting at the Cardew estate.

He came straight to the point, "District 13 has decided to go for a general uprising. They think the districts are on a tipping point and the time is right. They plan to spark the uprising by breaking Katniss out of the arena."

"They're nuts." said Plutarch. "How do they expect to do that? If Katniss is so essential, why not just take her from District 12. It'd be a lot easier."

"Taking Katniss from District 12 would start a direct confrontation between the Capitol and 13, and it would play out to the Capitol's advantage. District 13 would lose, and this opportunity would be wasted. A war with 13 wouldn't even make the news since officially the district doesn't even exist, and the sudden disappearance of Katniss? Well, she has a reputation for sneaking beyond the fence. No doubt killed by wild beasts or simply lost in the wilderness. A lesson to us all.

"If, on the other hand, she is rescued from the arena, that will be an open act of rebellion broadcast nationally by the Capitol's own cameras. It will be an act to fire a revolution."

"I don't know how you're going to do it." said Plutarch. "This will be the most artificial arena since the last quell. No natural weaknesses and an impregnable force field."

"We have people who think it can be done, with some help from you."

"What do you expect me to do? I'm little more than a figure head in these games. Snow's in charge. You know: he has plans of his own that he hasn't told to me. He's ordered enough explosives distributed throughout the arena that the whole thing could self-destruct at the flip of a switch. And he's ordered pyrotechnics installed, fireworks, that have no obvious purpose that I can see, and useless except at night. He didn't like it when I asked him what they were for, and he didn't answer; just told me to have them ready. He's watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to step out of line. I'm beginning to feel like just another tribute."

"Based on what you told us about victors being reaped, we have a list of half a dozen people we'd like to see in the arena."

Plutarch snorted derisively. "Half a dozen? Such a modest request. To what end? It's ridiculous."

"If we can even hope to succeed, we need the right people in place. It's not like Reapings haven't been rigged before."

"You're crazy." said Plutarch. "Sure they've been rigged, but it's an extraordinary thing to happen. Six people? Forget it. Snow would never allow it. He'd have a fit, and the Games would have a new Head."

"Could you at least manage one, just one?" asked Bill, exasperated. "We'll take our chances on the rest. There's not all that many in the pool anyway."

"Who?" asked Plutarch.

"Beetee, from District 3. He's essential."

"The electric guy? He's pretty essential to the Capitol." Plutarch mulled it over. "I can try if I must, but I doubt I'll succeed. One way or another it will end up before Snow, and he's not going to like it."

"You must, and you'll manage." said Bill confidently. "Don't lose sight that this is your only chance to really strike back at Snow. Remember that, by your own estimation, you're at the make-or-break point."

Plutarch was unhappy when he left the meeting, pressured from both sides, but he knew he really had no choice but to put his faith in District 13. He was a dead man if he stayed in the Capitol. _Eyes on_ _the prize_ , he told himself. For years he had dreamed of a showdown with Snow, and here it was – entirely on Snow's terms. Plutarch might lose. How unexpected was that?

Having no choice but to take 13's unlikely plan to heart, he arranged a meeting with the chaperone for District 3 and ordered him to announce Beetee as one of the tributes. The chaperone objected.

"Beetee is not just anybody." he argued. "The Capitol relies on him in remarkable ways. Is the President aware of this request?"

"No. And it's not a request: it's an order." said Plutarch. "It's my decision as Head Gamemaker for the benefit of the Games."

"Yeah." said the chaperone. "But Beetee? I'm sorry, I really hate to do this, but I'm going to need approval from higher up. Beetee. Geez."

Plutarch had no choice but to take it to Snow. There was no way to retract the order once given, Snow would inevitably hear of it. He had hoped the deal might be done before that happened. That hope was gone.

Snow was deeply suspicious. "Why Beetee?"

"He won his games with electricity." replied Plutarch. "He's the only one to do so, ever. It was strictly a one time thing, an oddball event, but a real crowd pleaser. The opportunity has never presented itself since; not that there's been any tribute who was up to it. These Games have an electrical component in the lightning sector. I think the public will be intrigued to see if he can do something weird again. Give him a piece of wire and let him at it."

"Beetee is valuable to the Capitol."

"He has been valuable to the Capitol in the past, but is such reliance on a single person, and a person from the districts at that, a good idea? It would be a show of confidence and strength if the Capitol is willing to commit him to the arena. Time to make some of the others earn their keep."

"I know you're not questioning my judgment."

"It will be a very popular move. He's unique among the victors: to some, he's the underdog who overcame all obstacles, the triumph of brain over brawn, and to others, he cheated and deserves his comeuppance. The public eats up stuff like this."

Snow looked at him dolefully, but then a sinister smile crept onto his face. "Very well. Reap him."

A shudder rippled down Plutarch's spine, but the fix was in.


	7. Chapter 7

**7**

Days later, Bill and Plutarch were sitting at the same patio table where they had first met, enjoying an unseasonably warm day in May.

"We have a plan to get you out of here." said Bill. "We're thinking beyond the Games now. How best to utilize the Mockingjay once she's been rescued."

"How very confident of you." said Plutarch.

"We look forward to having you in 13. You're essential to our plans, your expertise in promotion and your knowledge of staging national events. The Mockingjay will have to be on air: the face of the revolution. She will have to be all that people expect of her."

"From what I can tell, what people expect of her is beyond the reach of mere mortals."

"Exactly." said Bill. "That's why we need you.

"The breakout is scheduled for midnight on the third day of the Games. It was an arbitrary decision, but we feel your concerns about Snow working behind the scenes are valid. We suspect these Games won't run long. District 13 will be dispatching a hovercraft for the rescue. The plan is that it will come here first to get you and Fulvia. We're estimating its arrival here probably between 4pm and 5pm on the third day of the games. That's strictly based on distances. Events may intervene. The Cardew estate will be the pick up point. It's just beyond the city's defences and we think their sensors will be blind to a low level fly in.

"There are only the three victors available from District 12. We know that Peeta and Katniss will be going into the arena and Haymitch will be their mentor. Haymitch has long been in contact with us. He's our information source, and he knows about the plan. He's as skeptical as you but supports the effort. He knows you are involved. If there's any way you could help him get out..."

"What you expect will require a lot more than just Fulvia and me."

"Work up what you need, let us know, and we'll plan accordingly."

"You know," said Plutarch, "that a lot of people are going to die. Just this attempt of yours will do the trick. You can expect all the prep teams, all the stylists, all the chaperones, and all the mentors from every district to be arrested. Most of them will die. The mentors especially will suffer. You can expect them to be tortured long and hard for any information. There may be some hope for the teams of the tributes who die before your attempt, but I doubt it. The fact that Joe Blow dies before this breakout doesn't mean he wasn't up to his neck in the conspiracy. The Peacekeeper guards and probably most of the Gamemakers will be arrested as well. I expect they'll simply shoot any Avoxes associated with the tribute teams. If you succeed, the arena design team will certainly all be dead. And it just goes on and on."

"What we're hoping for is a revolution. Win or lose, thousands, tens of thousands, will die."

Once again, Plutarch found himself caught up in events beyond his control. District 13 had plans. Snow had plans. Time for him to make a few plans of his own. At present, the Mockingjay was just a vague ideal in people's minds. How would you go about converting that into a reality? Obviously this would require more skills than he possessed. Staging events came easily to Plutarch. He might even have access to a competent and experienced camera crew. It was the physicality, the Mockingjay look, that was beyond him. The only answer to that problem was Cinna. The chief stylist for District 12 had demonstrated time and again that he understood what the public wanted from Katniss, and how to present her to satisfy that desire.

He arranged an informal tour of the tribute Remake Center a week before the reaping: confirmation that all necessary supplies were on hand, pep talks to all the prep teams, a meeting with each stylist. It would be a long and tiring day, but it was the only excuse he could come up with for a one on one conversation with Cinna. Plutarch traveled with a small entourage, it was unavoidable, but part of the plan involved a televised documentary on the making of the Games. He had announced Cressida as the producer of the documentary, and she and her team kept everyone busy planning camera positions, lighting and the other preliminary scheduling and interviews that the broadcast would require. The day was as tiring as he expected. The prep teams were ecstatic at the thought of the publicity, constantly bobbing and bowing in the presence of the Gamemakers. The stylists were equally fawning, though more restrained and acutely aware of their status and prestige in Plutarch's presence. The private time that Plutarch insisted on with each was icing on the cake.

Cinna's office was empty when Plutarch arrived, and he was glad of the opportunity to sit for a moment in peace and quiet. A sketch book lay on Cinna's desk, and Plutarch opened it to glance through the drawings. They were a revelation.

Plutarch was so engrossed that he did not notice Cinna entering. Cinna, startled to see the Head Gamemaker looking through that particular book, turned pale as a sheet and collapsed on the nearest chair.

"It's only a fantasy." he gasped.

Startled, Plutarch looked up to see him and then, indicating the designs before him, he asked, "What is this?"

"A fantasy." reiterated Cinna. "There's really not a lot of design required for these Games. There are plenty of gowns Katniss has never worn. The training uniforms are beyond my control, as are the arena outfits. All that's required from me are measurements."

"And this?" asked Plutarch.

Cinna looked thoroughly miserable. "I admit it:" he said, "Katniss got under my skin. I guess it's because I'm new to the Games. Portia is much more blasé about the whole thing. For her, tributes come and go, but for me: Katniss was my first. I thought she was truly remarkable from the first time we met. She has this aura about her, a fundamental fatalism at war with a resolute drive to survive. It filled whatever room she was in."

He paused and shook his head contemplatively before continuing, "And then she was a Victor. Her survival, and the way she managed not just for herself, but for Peeta as well, was remarkable. And her token, the Mockingjay pin, became such a big trend, but somehow it never stopped being her personal statement. Have you ever known a token so recognized and so closely associated with a tribute?

"I was shocked when the President announced that Victors would be reaped for the Quell. Wasn't every one shocked? I was horrified for Katniss, but what can you do? So I did that." he said, gesturing towards the book.

"I asked myself: how would I dress Katniss if I could give her every protection a costume could allow? How could the Mockingjay theme be incorporated into that design? You're looking at the result."

"It's brilliant." said Plutarch. "Snow would consider it treason."

"I know." said Cinna. "So what happens now?"

Plutarch hesitated for only a moment, and then told him about District 13 and its plans. It was a risk. Cinna might simply have been preparing to bluff his way out of a tight situation. When he had finished, Cinna, much recovered, sat slowly nodding.

"Did you know that the President has ordered Katniss dressed in her wedding gown for her on air interview?" he asked Plutarch.

"No."

"It's so cruel," said Cinna, "so very cynical. He's showing his disdain for the public's embracing of the entire Katniss phenomenon."

"Yes." said Plutarch.

"I can do something about that." said Cinna.

"You can come with us. You can punish Snow by making the Mockingjay come alive in District 13."

"The odds are against her getting there. I can do something more immediate."

Plutarch looked down at the book and idly turned a page. "It was careless of you to leave this out, especially knowing that Gamemakers would be coming through the building. You are fortunate that I'm the one who found it, but you had no cause to expect sympathy from any of us. In others hands it could have proven disastrous."

Cinna was distracted. "If I can join you, I will. But I must strike my own blow at my best opportunity. Anything that can give hope is worthwhile."

He looked at Plutrach, "You are right about the book. I'll destroy it."

"No." said Plutarch, "If you don't mind, I'll take it with me."

"In that case..." said Cinna. He walked over and made a brief note on the last page.

When Plutarch left Cinna's office, everyone wanted to know about the book. "Some sketches Cinna was kind enough to give me." was Plutarch's answer, and he opened the book to show a picture of Katniss in a brilliant wisp of an evening gown. The envy of those around him was palpable. It was a fitting end to the tour.

The next day, Plutarch's desk was buried under an avalanche of personalized sketches from all the other stylists.


	8. Chapter 8

**8**

It was disappointing to get such a vague response from Cinna. Plutarch did not doubt the man's dedication to Katniss, nor his opposition to Snow, but the book was dangerous, and leaving it in the open was an invitation to calamity. There was something very self-destructive in that act, and Plutarch had to wonder what 'more immediate' action Cinna had in mind. In his own hands, the book would be safe, but there would still be a gap in seeing Cinna's ideas properly implemented if the man himself was not available. Plutarch decided that Katniss' prep team would have the best understanding of Cinna's intent and decided to hedge his bets by planning to take them if necessary.

Freeing Haymitch was a more difficult problem. Mentors were well known throughout Panem. Each was a Victor in his or her own right, and their mentoring duties gave them them a high public profile. Nor were they free to come and go as they please. Like the tributes, they were under virtual arrest, never in public unattended, Peacekeeper guards always close to hand.

Plutarch started making calls.

Fulvia set herself the task of accumulating supplies of cosmetics and theatrical make up. She ordered them through the Gamemaker network, labelling the requisitions 'Emergency Supplies' and having them delivered to her mansion. It raised some eyebrows, but no suspicions. Excess was the rule in the Capitol, and people in positions of authority were expected to use those positions to feather their nests. Her excuse was entirely adequate.

The Reaping for the 75th Hunger Games went smoothly, as did the subsequent Tribute Parade. Cinna dazzled the crowd with his costuming. They were besotted with Katniss and Peeta. All the other tributes paled in comparison. These would be 'The Games of the Ill Starred Lovers', the final act in that tragic tale.

The night of the interviews, Cinna prevailed again. The miraculous transformation of Katniss from doomed bride to defiant Mockingjay was a sensation. Cinna was called on to stand and accept the accolades of the audience. With a sad smile on his face, he waved and bowed to the crowd. Plutarch, his face impassive, politely applauded, a deliberately restrained response to an act act he knew would infuriate the President. In his mind, he crossed Cinna from his list.

On the second day of the Games, Flavius, Octavia and Venia, Katniss' Prep Team, were ordered to appear at the Broadcast Center the following morning. Additional interview footage was required for the planned behind-the-scenes documentary. A limousine would collect them and they were given times to be ready.

Fulvia had a session with a representative from the Department of Corrections. She was planning an extravagant party for early on in the games, and wanted a selection of Avoxes on hand to serve as footmen. The number available was limited. Most Avoxes worked underground, and those few who had bought their way back into the light were in demand at private and official functions as either object lessons on the consequences of dissidence, or as party novelties. She carefully surveyed those before her and made an apparently random selection. The half dozen chosen would be delivered, fitted with tracking devices, in the early afternoon of the third day of the Games to help with the party preparations. A pair of Peacekeepers would, of necessity, also be on hand. One of the Avoxes selected was Pollux Lindgren.

Haymitch was expected at the Broadcast Center on the same morning. For him, it was just part of his mentoring routine.

Flavius was a bit surprised to find a neatly dressed individual already occupying the back seat of the limo. With Octavia and Venia added, the seating was positively tight. When the limo stopped and yet another individual crowded into the back, he was met with some protest. Prep Teams might not be highly rated on a celebrity scale, but they deserved better treatment than this. The limousine continued on its route, tinted windows obscuring the outside view.

Plutrach planned to spend the day at the Control Center, and early on dispatched Cressida and her crew to prepare for the coverage of the evening's events at Cardew House.

Haymitch arrived at the Broadcast Center mid morning. Already he was feeling the effects of a breakfast of red wine and white liquor. As usual, his driver and guard got out of the car before him to be in place as an escort into the building. Haymitch was just getting out when, out of nowhere, his guards were brutally attacked and left senseless on the ground. Before the horrified onlookers could respond, before building security knew what was happening, Haymitch had been dragged to a waiting vehicle, stuffed into the back, and the vehicle had left the scene. The alarm was immediate.

The limo ride of the prep Team went on and on until Venia finally asked, "Shouldn't we be there by now?" In reply, she was punched in the stomach by the man beside her, leaving her gasping for air. The others were aghast. The man on the other end of the seat looked at the three and said, "Shaddup!" The ride continued in terrified silence.

Scant blocks from the Broadcast Center, the car carrying Haymitch came to a stop. All the men, including Haymitch, got out. Those responsible for the kidnapping drifted off to be lost in the crowd of passersby. Haymitch straightened his clothes and entered a nearby store. Moments later, he emerged wearing a colorful coat, and a hat with a very broad brim. A petite lady, wearing a veil and an elaborate hat of her own, had her arm tucked around the crook of his elbow and was chatting away amiably. The two strolled down the street towards the city center.

Plutarch was in the Control Center when he heard of news of Haymitch's disappearance. It was instantly the only topic of conversation. It took stern action on his part to bring the team back to its focus on the Games. There was no mention of the missing Prep Team. No interviews had actually been scheduled.

Haymitch and his companion had stopped at the entrance to an alleyway. A van, its rear doors wide open, was making a delivery to the back entrance of a store. The driver and a store employee were having an animated discussion and soon disappeared into the building. Haymitch and the lady drifted into the alley. The only visible surveillance camera was obviously broken and dangled from a single wire. When they reached the van, Haymitch clambered inside, tossed the lady his hat, and disappeared into a large wicker basket. A driver's assistant sat in the front seat, cleaning his fingernails and taking no notice. The lady reversed her coat, stuffed her hat into her bag and put on Haymitch's, then continued out the other end of the alley. The driver emerged from the store, closed the van doors and drove off.

Early in the afternoon, Plutarch received a call from Fulvia. She was at her estate, already hard at work preparing for the entertainment that evening. She required his assistance.

Over the protests of his assistants, he begged off his duties "for just a couple of hours" and headed for the estate.

The limo carrying the Prep Team crunched to a halt. The smoothly paved roads of the Capitol had been left behind, and they had been traveling for some time over gravel. Ordered from the car, they huddled together beside it. The day was bright after the dim confines of the car and, as their eyes adjusted, they found themselves in the courtyard of a mansion. Men grabbed them roughly, handcuffed their hands and shackled them together. They were led to an outbuilding, an empty gardening shed, shoved inside with the door closed behind them. In the darkness of the shed, all three broke down and wept.

The van carrying Haymitch was taking its time. There were several stops as it wove an erratic course through the streets of the Capitol. Deliveries were made, goods were picked up. All in a day's work. But after turning one particular corner and pulling to a halt, the driver looked back into the van and said, "Haymitch, there's trouble."

Haymitch popped open the lid of the basket and sat up. "What?"

"Peacekeeper cordon."

"Isn't it nice to be wanted. Any suggestions?"

"We were afraid this might happen so we actually do have a delivery scheduled for out here. This is the end of the city;" said the driver, "a few developed streets and then rough country, fairly open. How good is your sense of direction?"

"I can manage." said Haymitch.

"Here's what we can try: there's extra coveralls back there, dark brown same as our uniforms. Put them on. When we make our final stop, wait for us to open the doors, then get out and walk away from the building. Keep going in that direction. If anyone's around, we'll be doing our best to distract them. Just keep going in that direction. Once you're clear of the yard, you should be alright. It's low grade industrial out here. There's usually a bit of pedestrian traffic and people cut through yards all the time. Just try to look casual and keep going. Once you hit open country, you'll have about a half mile before you hit any decent cover. After that you should be fine. If you can keep a fairly straight line, the road curves around, and you should hit it again after a mile or so. Your biggest problem will be that open ground. There'll be some boulders and scrub, and the color of your outfit will help, but if you're going to be spotted, that's where it will happen.

"Let's go." said Haymitch.

The driver put the van back in motion.

"When you get to the road," the driver said, "stay out of sight. There probably won't be any traffic, but if there is, and it isn't us, then it will likely be Peacekeepers. Watch for us. We'll pull off as soon as we can the after cordon and give you an hour. Then we'll hope to find you.

It was nerve racking when Haymitch left the cover of the buildings. In the distance, off to his right, he could just see the road, and the cloud of Peacekeepers blocking it. Frighteningly, the dark mass of a hovercraft hung poised over the roadblock. If he could see them, they could see him. Slowly and cautiously he worked his way across, darting from one bit of cover to the next, waiting each time for the hue and cry. Gradually, the opportunities for cover increased – bigger boulders, trees, a sudden dip in the land. The cover was good, but it made it difficult to keep on a straight heading, and the going was slow. Haymitch was beginning to despair, afraid he had lost his way, when the gravel path opened before him. He crouched at its side listening intently. The sound of an approaching vehicle made him draw back, and he watched as a black limousine rounded a corner, headed towards the city.

Plutarch arrived at the Cardew estate mid-afternoon. Fulvia greeted him.

"The Prep Team is here. We have them locked up out back."

"What about the Avoxes and Peacekeepers?"

"I sent them down to the wine cellar to bring up some cases. The Peacekeepers went along to keep an eye on them. Cressida sent down a cameraman to shoot the cellar. She and her crew had just arrived. It was very fortuitous. I grabbed the one and told him to go. It surprised them, but Cressida just shrugged and the guy grabbed a camera and went. All his gear is still sitting here. Gee. Somehow they got locked in. There's been shouting going on back and forth through the door for an hour, but no one seems to know what's happened to the key. Only the Avox called Pollux is still up here. He was busy elsewhere when I sent the others down."

"Any sign of Haymitch?"

"Not yet."

"It's a huge manhunt." said Plutarch. "They've already blocked off the road. It took me half an hour to get through even with all my papers and ID. They searched my car very thoroughly."

Together, they entered the house and walked to the kitchen packed high with provisions for the evening's feast. It was a hive of activity with preparations furiously under way.

Fulvia explained, "I thought it best to prepare for the party, just in case the plan falls through."

Plutarch nodded approvingly, but said, "Let's hope it doesn't. What about your people?"

"When the hovercraft shows up, they'll head back to the city. Hopefully the Peacekeepers will be more concerned with people trying to get out than trying to get in. These people are loyal, Plutarch, but this is such a great risk."

"I'd better go and talk to Cressida. She and her crew are probably the only ones here still out of the loop."

"Well, she certainly knows that Castor and his brother are back together." said Fulvia, as Plutarch went in search of the camera crew.

Five minutes later, he was back. "They're in." he said. "Castor and Pollux had already decided to make a run for it. Cressida is up for the adventure. Masalla isn't happy about it, but will follow Cressida."

"What about Bill?" asked Fulvia.

"He's in the city. He's staying. I don't think it's smart, but he says he's survived worse, and still has work to do. He has people of his own... and there's the group I'm leaving. It took a lot of people to stage what went on today, and they took a lot of risks to do it. Ultimately it's Snow they're working against. Somebody has to keep that alive."

Together they sat on a back patio as afternoon drew towards evening. There was no sign of District 13's hovercraft.

At the side of the road, Haymitch waited and waited. Convinced that the van must have missed him, or wasn't coming, he started off away from the city, following the road but keeping under cover. The sound of a vehicle brought him to a stop and he watched expectantly. It was the van, and moments later he was crowded into the front seat with the driver and his assistant.

"Peacekeepers, geez!" said the driver. "I thought we were done. It was your coat, you see. They were looking for it, but Ad here was a real trooper – lied thorough his teeth. It was amazing!"

Ad, the assistant, wore gave a grin from ear to ear. "I told them I found it back in the alley, and I wasn't about to let such a prime item go to waste."

"They didn't like it, wanted to take us in, but we do have a delivery here for Cardew House, and that means big wigs, powerful dudes. Don't want to mess with them. What is it they say? 'They erred on the side of caution.' Nearly took the van apart though. And seized the coat. Maybe you should get back in the basket, Haymitch. Hopefully not necessary, but if there's anyone up ahead, there's only supposed to be two people in this van."

Haymitch obliged, and the van continued on its way.

Plutarch and Fulvia leapt to their feet when a hovercraft winked into view at the rim of the backing precipice. Fully emblazoned with Capitol insignia, it settled to the ground. Their stomachs were churning as a squad of heavily armed soldiers disembarked and formed a line. Not Peacekeepers though, these men were dressed in somber grey. An officer, similarly dressed, followed them out.

Fulvia looked to one of her servants. "Get Cressida and her crew, bring the people from the shed, bring the supplies." She and Plutarch, followed closely by a crowd of curious servants, walked down to meet the new arrivals.

The officer introduced himself as Captain Armstrong from District 13. Plutarch responded in kind and told the Captain to get the Prep Team and supplies loaded. It didn't make the Captain happy, but he complied. Fulvia started directing her servants and the soldiers.

Armstrong asked, "Isn't Haymitch Abernathy supposed to be here as well."

Plutarch responded, "Has not yet arrived. Come up to the house. We can't wait more than a couple minutes."

As they neared the house, a delivery van pulled into the yard. The driver and an assistant wrestled a wicker hamper out of the back and lugged it inside, casting nervous glances towards the hovercraft.

Haymitch was standing in the hamper when Plutarch and Armstrong entered. Plutarch introduced him to the Captain. (The two from the van breathed sighs of relief.)

"Yeah, yeah." said Haymitch, "Let's go. They're already after me."

They ran to the hovercraft, which was airborne in seconds.

The mansion disappeared from view as the hovercraft dropped over the precipice and floated down to the bottom of the chasm. Plutarch watched through a view port as the craft worked a slow path away from the Capitol, out of the mountains. He had thrown in his lot with District 13. Would they be able to deliver anything in return?


End file.
